Who Says You Can't Go Home?
by Route67
Summary: John has been missing for over a week, leaving his boys to fend for themselves in a Motel outside of Neapolis, TN. 16 year old Dean finds how hard things can get when you have to be your little brother’s solid ground.
1. One

**Title: **Who Says You Can't Go Home

**Rating: **K+/PG (for tense situations involving children, very mild language, peril and emotional drama)

**Summery: **John has been missing for over a week, leaving his boys to fend for themselves in a Motel outside of Neapolis, TN. 16-year-old Dean finds how hard things can get when you have to be your little brother's solid ground.

**Time-Frame: **February, 1995; Dean's16 and Sammy's 11.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the Winchesters or their cool firearms or the Impala or…kay now I'm getting depressed. (lol) All that stuff belongs to Eric Kripke, the CW and a lot of other folks who aren't me. I also do not own the rights to any recognizable, copyrighted titles/brands/names found in this fanfic.

**Title Disclaimer: **The title of this story is taken from a Jon Bon Jovi song of the same name.

**Feedback: **I will give you a peanut M&M and a hug and then probably love you forever. But you don't have to leave feedback, no. ;)

* * *

Dean supposed the revving of the refrigerator woke him up. It always made that freaky _grnng grnng _noise around seven in the morning, and despite being a heavy sleeper, Dean was too accustomed to listening for small, unnatural sounds that could be something…else. The sound managed to rouse him at 7:05 on the dot, every morning. Beat buying an alarm clock, or worse, having his eleven-year-old brother come pounce on him, shouting, "There's a rat in your sleeping bag, Dean, the size of Texas!" Annoyingly, Sam had pulled this so-called joke on Dean many times before they moved to the Carters Creek Motel in Neapolis, Tennessee (with its buzzing refrigerator). Even more annoying, Dean had also fallen for that stupid rat prank almost every time. Obnoxious memories of dashing outside Pastor Jim's house in Minnesota still came to him, most mornings; half-reminiscent, half-irritating.

Dean sat up and rubbed his eyes, the thick, iron springs of the futon-couch twanging beneath his weight. The minty light of early mornings was wafting between the blinds in the living room and the whole "house" felt drafty and uninviting. An ugly little voice at the back of his head suggested curling underneath the thick, polar fleece blanket and dozing for a few more minutes. Dean ignored the temptation, and shoved the blanket rebelliously off his shoulders, turning on the foldout bed to jostle his brother awake.

Sam had his face mashed into a worn out pillow, both arms curled beneath him, both legs sprawled at funny angles. The first few nights of sharing the hideabed had been admittedly awkward for both brothers. Sam mumbled in his sleep, Dean said, and Dean, Sam would always retort, kicked. Lots. But they had grown accustomed to it by necessity, and anyway, it was better than sleeping on the floor. The Carters Creek motel hadn't put in new carpet since Robin Williams appeared on _Happy Days_ (the boys were certain) and it smelled like sour milk, dead fish, moldy cake, and a million other things which escalated in grossness as the nights got later and later.

Dean grabbed his brother by the shoulder and shoved him lightly. "Sammy?"

"Ung…"

He took a handful of pajama shirt and started rocking him back and forth. "Hey. Hey Sammy. It's seven o'clock."

"Jssa minute…"

Sam started to pull the covers over his head, but Dean grabbed them. "Huh-uh, if you're late for school later, you're gonna blame me, you know you are."

"I c'n…sleep for a few more-" Dean hauled the last of the covers off, balling them up and tossing them to the floor. "Hey! Dean…" Sam sat up; his hair sticking out at four different angles, and looking like it had grown a half-an-inch over night. He blinked blearily around him, arms crossed through each other gloomily. "It's cold," he muttered.

"Yeah, I know." Dean swung his legs over the bed, and got up. A muscle vibrated in his back where one of the springs had stuck him all night. He groaned a little, rubbing the spot, and went to the kitchen. Sam tumbled onto the floor, beginning to make the bed on his knees.

"Dean?"

Dean tugged the refrigerator open and retrieved the jug of 2 milk. "Yeah."

"When're we going to stop sleeping on this dumb couch?"

"When Dad gets back and fixes the bunk bed." Dean glanced over his arms, which were straining to reach the top cabinet where the cereal was. "I told you that yesterday."

"Nuh-uh, yesterday was Sunday and we-"

"Well I already told you anyway. Dad'll fix it when he gets home, till then the bunk's off limits. Why are you bugging me?"

"I'm not." Sam realized he was treading on that touchy subject: Dad. John Winchester hadn't been home for over a week. Sam forgot exactly how far over, since Dean never gave him a straight answer, but he was pretty sure it was something like nine days total. This made number ten. Usually they'd give Pastor Jim a call if John was absent for a week, but this time he'd told Dean, "I might be gone a little longer on this one. But I'm not going alone, so don't worry about me."

Don't worry about me. That's all he said. Sam knew he left a lunchbox of money behind, as always. He was sure Dean knew where the Remington hunting rifle was, and had hidden the Jericho 941 himself. But part of Sam would forever feel lopsided and uncertain while their dad was hunting. And as selfish as it seemed, he wasn't worried about John, he was worried about him and Dean. Ten whole days. When they were younger, they would pretend they were off on their own; taking a road-trip around the country in their dad's used Impala. The whole idea was cool when contained to Pastor Jim's backyard. Now it was ridiculous and creepy.

Dean pulled the sticky note off the counter, crumpled it, and tossed it. _Dad: Did okay while you were gone. Bed's broken. Your stuff's in the hallway closet. -Dean _That's what it said this time. Every night Dean would write a note to leave in the kitchen, just in case John showed up in the middle of the night. Every night it changed, and each time, it got a little shorter. Sam suspected that when John finally came home, he'd find no note at all.

"Hurry it up, Sam. You got twenty minutes, let's go."

Sam attempted to fold the hideabed himself, but the iron bar dug into his palms and refused to budge. "Dean?"

"Don't worry, I'll get it. Come eat your breakfast." Sam scurried into the kitchen, bare feet slapping the tile floor, and b-lined for the cereal cabinet.

"Dean, we're out of Cheerios."

"I already poured you some," Dean said, indicating the red, plastic bowl to his left.

Sam took a seat on the barstool next to his brother, but paused, spoon suspended over his breakfast. "What're you having?"

"Uh…" Dean paged to the middle of the car magazine he was holding. "There's some granola up there."

Sam put his spoon down. "You hate granola."

"Whatever, I'm never hungry for breakfast anyways." Dean leaned over and dropped Sam's spoon into his bowl, spattering his brother's pajama front with little dots of milk. "Now c'mon, quit fooling around. You still have to get dressed."

Sam plowed through his Cheerios, then disappeared down the short hallway and into the bathroom where they were currently keeping their clothes. He returned moments later in jeans and navy-blue hoodie over his favorite Paul Caligiuri t-shirt (the one with "shot heard round the world" emblazoned on the back) which was tucked neatly into his belt. Dean always suspected Sam felt at his coolest when wearing a soccer t-shirt, especially since it was always a point of rebellion against John, who wouldn't allow Sam to play soccer.

Dean raised his eyebrows, watching his brother detour into the living room, picking up pillows, popcorn kernels and balled up socks from the previous night. Dean whistled. "Where are you off to?" Sam shot him a confused expression, returning quickly to his tidying in a would-be casual manner.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what's with the shirt, tiger?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

Sam stood up straight with an armload of dirty clothes. "Yeah nothing."

"Okee-doke." Dean rolled the top of the paper bag in front of him, quickly scrawling _Sam W. _across the side with a Sharpie marker, and held it out. "Lunch for you, Bond."

Sam took it slowly, eyes scanning the counter. "Where's yours?"

"Where's my what?"

"Where's your lunch?"

"Hey why should I answer your question if you won't answer mine?" Sam gave him the 'that's so not gonna work' look, but Dean was unperturbed. "So why the getup? I mean usually you're uh- you're all polo shirts and button-ups. Haven't seen you wear a t-shirt to school since…" He thought a moment. "Geez, I think it was since Dad stopped dressing you."

Light shades of red spread from Sam's cheekbone to his chin. "You're gonna tease me."

"Am not."

"Yeah right, and Casper's the ghost of Pinocchio."

Dean grinned. "That's how I heard it."

"Whatever, dude." Sam went to make an exit from the kitchen, but Dean caught him by the hood.

"Alright alright, hang on a sec." He held up his right hand with a soberness that looked silly on him. "I swear I'm not going to tease you."

Sam set his lunch on the table and stuck his hands stiffly into his pockets. "Her name's Sandra Mitchel, she's beautiful and she's in PE with me."

Dean was clearly having a hard time containing himself. "She your age?"

"A little older, I guess. She's a grade above me, but our birthdays are pretty close together."

"You figured out her birthday?" A smirk forced its way to the surface. "Did'ja sneak into the office and read her file?" Sam broke eye contact. "You did, didn't you?" Dean was laughing now, and Sam grabbed for his lunch. "No wait- sorry, sorry. I think it's great."

"You do." Sam looked unconvinced.

"Yeah, man, you're in with a girl a grade up, I think that's awesome."

"Well…I'm not exactly 'in' with her."

"What, she doesn't like you?" Dean gave his arm a smack. "You're the resident brain, everybody likes you."

"I haven't…really…" Sam huffed loudly. "I haven't talked to her yet."

Dean smiled at him, taking a seat on a barstool again. "Well I'm going to give you some valuable advice. Girls don't give their numbers to guys who don't talk, Sammy. They tend to assume you can't use the phone."

Sam scowled at him. "I'm sick of getting written off as a braincase. I just…" he shuffled his feet. "I'd rather wonder if she'd like me than know she doesn't."

"Hey. Word of the older and wiser?"

Sam gave him a lopsided grin. "What're you talking about, 'older'? You're only sixteen, you can't even drive yet."

"Yeah, but I've been on a date or two."

"Two." Sam held up two fingers. "Exactly."

"You want my fantastic advice or not?" Sam shrugged and made no protest. "Just talk to her. Don't- don't spill your guts or start writing poetry, but you know. Say hi or something. You never get a conversation started without at least saying hi. What's the worst she could do?"

"Call me a dork and string me up from the flagpole by my shoelaces."

"Don't be stupid. No way a girl could do that all by herself, just make sure she doesn't have any tall friends." Sam grinned. "Another piece of advice?"

"Shoot."

Dean batted around at his own head. "Might want to do something about this little number."

Sam reached for his hair, and sighed. "Oh yeah. Can I borrow your comb?"

"Go ahead."

Sam trouped off to the bathroom, and Dean soon heard the sink running. There was a brief pause, then Sam called, "You know if you'd just let me in the bedroom, I could get my own comb. My notebook's in there too."

Dean scanned the ceiling for patience. "Sammy, I told you, the bed fell against the door."

"So why won't you let me go through the window, like you did, when you got all our clothes out?"

"It's been sitting there for days. I don't want to be under it, getting into our closet, when it decides to topple over, and I definitely don't want you going in there."

"Alright, alright." Sam came up the hall, his hair now reasonably tame. "Good enough?"

"Good enough." Dean handed him his lunch. "Need me to walk you?" Sam's expression froze and it was all Dean could do to keep from boiling to exasperation. "Let it go, Sam."

"You can't keep skipping school, Dean."

"Watch me."

"Dad doesn't want you to."

"Yeah well Dad's not here right now, is he? Anyway I've got stuff to do."

Sam watched him. "What kind of stuff."

"The kind of stuff that I have to do, now do you want me to walk you to the bus or not?"

Sam shoved his paper bag lunch into his backpack, zipping it shut and swinging it back over his back. "No I'm okay."

"Okay then."

Sam went for the front door, sliding back the deadbolt, then the safety chain. He turned, hand already on the doorknob. "It's just…don't you want to go to college and all?"

Dean shrugged cavalierly. "Maybe I want to do what Dad does." That seemed to get to Sam. To Dean's dismay, it looked like he was trying not to cry. "Aw c'mon Sammy, what's so horrible about that?"

"We don't even know where Dad is right now."

"Yeah. So?"

"So is that gonna be you someday?"

Dean stood up, a little angry. "There's nothing wrong with what Dad spends his time doing, Sam. He's gone for a good reason, 'kay, so leave him alone. Don't you want to be somebody? Don't you- wouldn't you love to go on a hunt someday, alone? You against the darkness out there?"

Sam just could not understand the excited look on his brother's face. He still remembered going on that hunt several months ago, just before coming to Tennessee, when his dad and Dean had apparently taken down a werewolf. Sam was told to stay in the car while they hunted it down, shot it and burned it. He didn't want to see anyway. However, scared as he was, sitting alone in the Impala trying not to think about the whirring silence, what really bothered him was the way Dean was acting when they returned to the car. He was panting, thrilled and proud, and animal glint in his eye.

Sam tapped his chewed-up fingernails on the copper doorknob. "I'd rather go to college."

"Then go, Mr. Ivy League, no one said you had to take on the family business. Oh but before you go, here." Dean held out the cell phone. "Just in case."

"Why me?"

"I just feel better you having it."

Sam remained hesitant. "What if something comes up here?"

Dean sighed, tucking the phone into his brother's jacket pocket. "You worry too much. Now go on, you're gonna miss your bus." He started out the door. "And Sammy?"

Sam turned. "Yeah?"

Dean grinned. "Just talk to her, man."

"I know."

"Just- talk, you know?"

Sam grinned back. "Leave me alone."

"Or you don't even have to talk, you could just sort of talk."

"Shut up."

"Like take it a letter at a time, 'H…I-'"

"I'm le-eaving…"

Dean teased Sam all the way out the door, and watched him walk down the sidewalk and around the corner. Waving one last time, he went back inside. The makeshift home was ugly and empty every time Sam left. The living room looked too tidy and he felt the urge to give the clicking refrigerator a solid kick. He glanced at his watch, which read 8:03 in luminescent green letters. Darnit. He was going to be late.

- - - - -


	2. Two

- - - - -

"You're late, Winchester."

"Sorry Mr. Becker. I had to see my brother off to school-" The look on Mr. Becker's face was enough to make any excuses, legitimate or no, die in Dean's throat. He was a sizable man with a rumbling Tennessee accent and a whirring sound at the back of his throat that made him seem both dim and commanding. It was a bit like working for a bulldozer. "I'll uh…I'll get to work. Sir."

"Son, I only gave you this job because you insisted you're a hard worker and needed the money. I can understand that, but I have no use for a kid on my staff if he can't show up for work on time. Feel me?"

"Yes sir. I'm sorry, Mr. Becker."

"Just- go do your job."

Cheeks burning and heart pounding in frustration, Dean went to the register with a big, glowing 4 over it, and started bagging groceries. The IGA made for a crumby job, and it was thirty-five minutes' walk from Carters Creek Motel, but it beat the only other option, which was no job. After trying all over town, Mr. Becker had been the only one willing to hire a sixteen-year-old with no references, and even he took some convincing.

Dean stuffed the last six-pack of Yoo-Hoo into a bag, managing a polite smile for the frazzled kindergarten teacher buying them, and waited for their next customer. Lynda, the college dropout Barbie who ran the register for number 4, dug out her cell phone and started to gab with her friend Mara-Jane as she always did between customers. She didn't seem to realize she had a bagging partner.

Dean hated this job. He hated it, hated it, hated it. And he hated Lynda and her strawberry chewing gum and dumb friend in Nashville almost as much as Mr. Becker, who found something to lecture Dean about pretty much every morning. And always it was in that stiff, belittling, shame-on-you sort of way. The tone he had no right taking, being that he wasn't Dean's father. The tone Dean had taken to mentally blocking when he could.

But the ugly truth was Sammy needed three meals every day and the money John had left for his boys was trapped in the bedroom. And no way was Dean trying to go in there and get it again. Still, what really scared him was the rent for the motel room would be coming up in about a week.

His efforts for money were further frustrated by the limit of distance. Man, wouldn't he kill for a driver's permit. But this family never seemed to stay anywhere long enough. It was a miracle John had succeeded in getting Sam into Spring Hill Middle School on such short notice. The high school which Dean was supposedly attending had taken longer, and they said he would have to wait until the summer to get into drivers ed. As if they'd still be here in the summer.

So here he was, working minimum wage at the back-road grocery store with its sticky floors and crumbly walls. If it weren't for the 15 discount given to employees, he would never have chosen to buy food here. The building barely looked legal, let alone sanitary. And the ceiling was eroding over the produce section.

"Winchester!" Dean jumped to attention. "You busy sitting around daydreaming?"

"No sir."

Mr. Becker spread his arms wide in a 'well duh' sort of way. "Then why don't you give a hand at register three, since you're not doing anything."

Dean stalked hotly over to the third register, bagging up the order and trying not to look at the kid behind the register. Chris something was his name, and he was just a few years older than Dean. He was, as Sam would probably put it, a "lame-oh bully type" who either hated having Dean there or loved it, but either way went to great lengths to pick on him. He also thought he was hot stuff just because he had the new "SN-95" model of Ford Mustang, which (he claimed) was the same one photographed for Motor Trend's Car of the Year award the previous year. It was bogus, since that model was owned by one of the Ford executives, (Dean had looked it up) but he was saving that as a comeback for a later argument.

"Hey sludge-brain." Was that funny or clever on any planet? Dean couldn't imagine half of Chris' so-called insults ringing witty even in a crowd of his best friends. Dean chose to ignore him, stuffing three loaves of whole-wheat bread neatly into a bag. "Hurry up, bagboy, make me look good."

"Whatever, dude." Dean made a grab for a small jar of pickles, but Chris shoved him in the elbow, causing the jar to skidder off the conveyer belt and onto the floor. It smashed, spattering their customer's sneakers in green juice. "Dangit! I'm so sorry." Dean grabbed the white rag they used for disinfecting the counters (though he seemed to be the only one who ever did it) and scrambled around the counter, collecting the pieces of glass, and mopping the sticky floor.

"What happened?" Mr. Becker's voice was always slightly accusatory, but this time it was full on parental. _Don't you dare, _Dean thought lividly, _don't you dare pin this on me, warthog._ "Dean, what did you do?"

"Butterfingers dropped it, Mr. Becker. I guess his hands are too stubby." Chris glanced casually down at Dean and returned to ringing up their customer's owner.

The man had finished wiping off his shoes with a paper towel Dean had given him, and stood up straight, facing Mr. Becker. "It's not big deal. Don't worry about it."

"We'll replace it for you."

"Oh well I'm running late for a meeting-"

"It's no trouble, sir; we'll get you another one. Dean?"

Dean didn't even wait for the order. He gathered up the bag of glass and the pickle-reeking rag and ran for the canned foods isle, tossing both items into the janitor cart on his way there. He snatched up a jar, praying it was the right kind, and made a break for the registers again. However when he arrived, it was just Chris and Mr. Becker, cleaning the last of the pickle juice off the floor with paper towels.

"Where's-"

Mr. Becker stood up. "He left," he said pointedly. "Where'd you go?"

"To get these." Dean held up the jar. "Sorry, I just-"

"Well it's coming out of your pay."

"But it wasn't my fault."

"Excuse me?"

Dean cleared his throat, hearing John's voice in his head. _Be a man, Dean. You have to stick up for yourself, you hear me? Always stick up for yourself._ "Chris jostled me, Mr. Becker, it wasn't my fault."

"That's $1.97 from you. Don't you ask me to pay for your mistakes, and after I agreed to pay you in cash too." His dim little eyes glittered. "I have half a mind to fire you-"

"Please don't, Mr. Becker, I need this for my brother and me."

Mr. Becker eyed him. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

Dean felt irritated. The fact that he was supposed to be attending high school had not come up when Mr. Becker gave him the job, because the old badger didn't actually care. The only reason he was pouncing on it now was he was itching to hassle Dean. Everyone in this gross little store wanted to.

"My brother Sam goes to school," he decided to say, sidestepping the entire question. "Spring Hill Middle School."

"Yeah?"

"Yes sir."

"Alright then." Mr. Becker sized him one last time, and came away unimpressed and bored, going behind his manager's desk.

This so wasn't worth a measly salary and a 15 discount. But Dean thought of draining the last three drops of milk into his brother's cereal bowl, and making Sammy's sandwich with hamburger buns. He shut his eyes, took a long breath, and went back to register four, listening for ten minutes to the _seeeePOP_ of Lynda's gum.

- - - - -

__

Clap clap "One!" _clap clap _"Two!" _clap clap _"Three! All the way up there, Lucas." _clap clap _"Four! Nice, Sam."

Sam was sick of doing jumping jacks. His legs were beginning to feel the strain of the sixty minutes of PE and his throat pounded in his upper chest. Finally, they hit twelve, and the coach blew his whistle. "Alright! Good work, guys. Three laps, then hit the showers, let's go!"

Laps, on the other, Sam could do. The coach always left after the first one, and then the kids could meander around the football field for the next half-hour before anyone realized PE was technically over. Sam went quickly, kicking at the tufts of mowed grass on his way, and by the time he passed the home goalpost, Coach Silvey had vanished.

Sam slowed to a soft jog, eyes fixed on the opposite side of the field where cheerleading practice was finishing up. He hurried to reach the crowd of twelve and thirteen-year-olds before they had completely dispersed. And there she was, wavy blonde hair catching the sun like a mirror, and eyes sparkling almost as brilliantly as her white teeth. He walked up behind the chattering group of girls, heart pounding louder and louder until it drowned out his thoughts.

"Hey," he said, feeling like he was talking over a storm. None of them turned, they were too busy talking. For a paralyzing moment, he considered turning and walking away. "Hey- hey Sandra?" She turned. They all turned. Three faces straight from a teen magazine stared back at him, expectant. He thought he was going to pass out. "Hi, I'm Sam. Winchester. Sam Winchester." Real smooth, Sam.

Sandra blinked. "Oh yeah- I heard about you."

"Yeah?" _She must be thinking about another Sam Winchester_. "Uh…"

"Well, I hear some of the Cougars talk about you." Sam knew the confusion on his face looked funny at best, completely moronic at worst. "The Cougars." Sandra gestured around the field. "The football team?"

"Right!" Stupid, stupid, stupid! "Right, yeah."

"They say you're the smartest newbie." Exactly how red was he? Maybe in the bright sun, she couldn't tell. Or she'd think it was from doing PE.

"Aw…well, I dunno…"

"So- did you want to tell me something?"

It came to him then that he had no idea what he was supposed to do. Ask her out on a date? Say, 'nah, I don't really want to talk to you; I just thought you were pretty.' Suddenly he wished he had let Dean give him some more advice. "I just…I noticed we had PE together, and we've never really talked-" _Spoken, Sam, we've never really spoken._ "-so I just…figured I should introduce myself."

With a wave of relief, he realized she and her friends were smiling. "Well pleased to meet you, Sam." Sandra glanced at the girls behind her. "Uh- Lauren, Andi? I'll catch up with you."

They looked at each other, and Andi cast Sam a meaningful glance, flashing a bleached smile Sandra's way. "See you girl."

- - - - -

Getting his paycheck had required a lot of begging, which galled Dean to no end. When Becker finally handed it over, it was as if he thought he was doing his "junior bagboy" a favor. Now Dean was doing something else he hated: Shopping. So far he had milk, bread, Raisin Bran, and in his personal opinion a definite must, a six-pack of Coke. IGA brand, but Coke nonetheless.

Now he was down to the questions. What did Sam usually eat for lunch? What did Dad used to do for dinner? "Feel like a flipping mother hen," he muttered, grabbing a box of Macaroni and Cheese and dropping it gloomily into his basket. Finally, he felt he'd done the grocery shopping for the next week to the best of his ability, and moved for the registers. The feeling of relief faded instantly when he realized the only register still up, right before closing hour, was number three.

Dean set the basket at the end of the conveyer belt, and avoided eye contact with Chris, busying himself with digging through the cash Becker had just given him.

"This it for you bagboy?"

"Just pack it up, Chris," Dean said. He was tired and running late. The last thing he needed after this day from the seventh circle was to be late meeting Sam at home. Sammy didn't even have a key, which meant he would have to hang around outside the Motel alone, and the thought bothered Dean. He fumbled for a coupon as Chris rang up the Macaroni and Cheese. Chris glanced at the coupon but didn't take it. "Employees can't use those."

Dean looked down at it. "Doesn't say that."

"Well check the fine-print, scrawny." Chris scanned the second box, daring Dean to argue with him. Dean pocketed the coupon with a rough sigh.

"Fine whatever." Chris started adding each of the Granny Smiths separately. "Ever heard of a produce code?"

Chris didn't look up from his tedious task, a smirk spreading greasily across his mouth. "Why, you gotta get home to your baby brother?"

"It's quicker and you know it."

"Whassa matter, Dean?" Chris grinned at him and Dean felt his ire rising like a tide. "Is he afraid of the dark?" Dean ground his molars.Chris put both hands on the counter, abandoning the order. "I guess this isn't the best place to walk home from school alone, out in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes kids get snatched right off the sidewalk."

Dean reached over to scan the next item, but Chris smacked his hand away, eyes never leaving their mark. "Just run the order," Dean said dangerously.

"What'll you give me?"

"To do your job? I won't report you to Becker." _Weak, Dean. Real weak._

"Uh-oh." Chris' face became a mask of pseudo terror. "Gosh, he might- he might- actually believe his pimple-faced retarded bagboy instead of me! I'm eighteen moron." He lazily scanned the next item. Dean kept an eye on the order screen, making sure the charge was correct. "He doesn't care what you think."

Dean kept his mouth shut and glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Sam would be home soon, and Dean still had a thirty-minute walk ahead of him. Twenty, if he ran. Finally, the last item was scanned and Dean waited for his total. It didn't come.

"Aren't you forgetting something, Winchester?" Dean just looked at him. "Well- Pampers for little Sammy. You know, if he actually makes it home without-"

Looking back, Dean would never know how he made it over the counter, past the register and on top of a boy ten inches taller than him. In moments, they were flat on the floor and Dean hit him, hard, and instantly the feeling between his fingertips and elbow evaporated, leaving his left arm hot and weightless. Chris' nose made a gross snapping noise, and blood spilled down into his mouth and across his chin. Dean's points ended about there.

Chris was bigger, tougher and had clearly gotten into many fights before, because he knew some real moves. Seconds later, Dean was flat on his stomach, arms crisscrossed over his head while Chris pummeled his back and sides. "Get up punk! Get up. I'll beat the cr-"

"You boys stop! Git off him, git off right now, Chris!" Dean had never been happy to hear Becker's scraggly growl before then. Chris, who had been straddling Dean's back, jumped off, clutching his bleeding nose pathetically.

"Sir he started it!" he bellowed. Dean pushed himself onto his hands and knees, pain ricocheting down his spine. His stomach hurt too, but he forced himself up, standing slightly stooped, arm wrapped across his middle.

"What happened, Winchester?"

"Nothing," Dean muttered.

"He pounced on me for no-"

"I said shut it, Chris." Becker motioned to the carrousel of groceries. "These yours?" Dean nodded. "Chris ringing your order?" He nodded again. "Alright. Chris, finish up. It's closing time." He snapped his fingers, eyeing them both beadily. "And I don't wanna see any more fightin'. Ever. Y'all aren't necessary to me. You follow?" He stalked away to his desk to collect his things up and head home. Chris would be locking up. Dean felt the sudden need to take his groceries and run for it before their manager left the building.

To his relief, Chris, slurring through his swollen nose, mumbled, "Total's $29.43." Dean dug out a twenty and a ten, slapped them on the counter, and without waiting for his change, grabbed his bags and ran- yes ran -for the double doors.

- - - - -

Dean thought the pain couldn't possibly increase, but when he reached Carters Creek Motel and saw Sam sitting on the steps with his feet braced against the doorway, hoodie pulled up and eyes closed, he stomach plummeted, leaving his chest cold and deflated, the injuries Chris had left behind numbing over. How was he going to explain himself this time? And what would John say if he knew Sammy had been left alone for who knew how long, two sidewalks from the train-tracks and in walking-distance of Route-31?

Dean decided awhile ago that Sam didn't need to know they were short on money, and he definitely didn't need to know Dean was working with a guy who could pound him if the notion came to him. His brother already had an unhealthy tendency to worry about everything. Dean just thanked his lucky stars that Chris hadn't gotten any hits in at his face. A few bruises under the shirt was doable, but a shiner was hard to explain away. He was also relieved that Sam seemed to be fine, even though he had clearly been here for awhile. The sun was beginning to sink behind the Juniper Branch Reality building across the street, casting brown-and-gold light on everything. Suddenly the world seemed a little less threatening. Sam was okay. That's what mattered second in this broken little family; we're all alive, and Sammy's just fine.

"'sup, stranger?"

Sam sat up and pushed the hood off his head, revealing a bush that had long-since outgrown the water that attempted to tame it that morning. "You're late."

Dean realized he didn't look disgruntled in the least. "And you're grinning like an idiot," he countered. Sam's grin faded a little, but he was undaunted.

"Where were you?"

"Duh." Dean lifted the bags. "Think I want to have granola for breakfast tomorrow, c'mon."

Sam clambered off the steps and followed Dean inside, shutting the door behind him. Dean flicked the light switch, and began putting groceries away in the kitchen. "So wanna know what's for dinner?"

Sam flopped onto the folded-up futon, digging around in the cushions for the remote. "Your speciality?"

"Mac and Cheese it is." Dean went for a pot and started filling it with water. "So how'd school go?"

"Okay."

"Just okay?" Dean watched the back of his brother's head for awhile as Sam tried to flick casually through channels. He finally landed on some inane cartoon on the CN. Dean grinned a little. "So how was it?"

"How was what?"

Dean stuck the pot of water on the stove. "Your chat with Sandra, how'd it go?" He pointed at the TV. "Dude, you haven't watched The Jetsons since you were six." Sam shifted around on the couch. "Not gonna tease you, man."

He turned around slowly, the grin spreading in a deliriously pleased way that begged Dean to laugh. "I said hi, she said hi…and- we kinda clicked."

Dean grinned but there was no kidding behind it. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. And then…then she said I was smart, and I said she was pretty-"

"Woah, hey, you said she was pretty?"

"Yeah."

"That's the word you used, pretty?" He nodded. Dean clicked his tongue proudly. "Always said you were classy Sammy."

"Well…the important thing is-" Sam took a deep breath, leading up to something significant. "She asked me to the Heartday picnic. Kinda short notice, but…"

"What the- the Valentine's picnic? At the Jackson Heights Rec Park tomorrow?" Sam just blushed and Dean went back to making dinner. Ten minutes later, he and Sam took a seat on the futon, each holding a steaming bowl of Mac and Cheese, and watching some made-for-TV movie about a kid who was psychologically scarred into thinking Captain Hook murdered his dad. Sam thought it was creepy, Dean thought it was boring. However neither one of them were paying much attention, and while they were taking their dishes and empty Coke cans to the kitchen, Dean elbowed Sam and grinned. "Hey. Good job."

Sam grinned back and shrugged. "Yeah. Thanks."

- - - - -

Sam stared up at the dark ceiling in the living room, the house quiet save for the distant yelling and banging from their neighbors next-door. Dean was always whining about how they left the TV running all night long, but Sam preferred it to the ringing silence.

"Dean?"

"Hmn?"

"When's Dad gonna come home?"

"Hmn." Dean's voice was muffled by the pillow pressed against his face. "I dunno Sam."

"I'm sick of sleeping on this thing."

Dean groaned a little as the thick springs rubbed against his bruised back. "No argument here."

"Dean?"

"Hmn."

"What if Dad's…what if he can't come home for like a long time? What'll we do for money?"

Dean rolled onto his side. "Hey." Sam looked at him. "Don't worry about that stuff. Dad knows what he's doing, and we're going to be fine. Leave all that boring stuff up to me, 'kay?"

"Okay." Dean rolled back over and tugged the blanket over his shoulder, breathing deeply again. Sam stared at his brother, then back at the ceiling. "Dean?"

A heavy sigh. "What Sammy."

"What am I gonna wear tomorrow?" Sam couldn't see Dean's face, but he knew he was laughing.

"Du-ude…"

"Okay, okay. I'll shut up." Sam sniggered as the nighttime mood kicked in. "It's just like…should I spike my hair like you did when you and that girl from the McDonalds-"

"Blablabla…!" Dean stuck his hands over his ears. "Leave me alone. And you're giggling like a girl."

"Am not!"

"Whatever, Shirley Temple."

"Be quiet."

"You be quiet-"

"You be quiet!" Now Sam really was giggling. Dean clobbered him in the face with his pillow, then mashed it up and slammed his whole head into it.

"Shut up, you got a date tomorrow."

"Night."

"Night Sammy."

- - - - -


	3. Three

- - - - -

Sam examined himself in the bathroom mirror. No, there simply was nothing "cool" his hair was willing to do. He would have to get by with mostly combed, and hope that Sandra wasn't one of those nitpicky girls who thought her boyfriend needed to look like Tom Cruise did in Top Gun.

There was a loud knock at the door. "Sammy get the lead out, it's breakfast time."

"Alright, hang on a sec." Sam never wished so badly for a lock on the bathroom door. He scrambled to stow his toothbrush and toothpaste in the top drawer before Dean inevitably barged in. Sam brushed his teeth most mornings, but he knew Dean would read all the wrong things into it if he found out he'd done it this morning. _Hoping for a kiss, Sammy? I'll get you some mouthwash at the store today._ Har-har-har.

Sure enough, the door swung in moments later, and Dean was standing on the other side, hair lopsided on the same angle as the shirt of his PJs and the grin on his face. "All set?"

"Yeah." They went to the kitchen, and Sam forced down a bowl of Raisin Bran he barely tasted. It felt like a whole swarm of butterflies had taken up residence deep in his stomach, and he kept thinking and rethinking what he was going to say when he saw Sandra at school and wondering for the millionth time if he'd picked the right shirt.

Dean caught the uneasy vibes radiating from the eleven-year-old, and eventually took pity on him. "I'd wear the blue one Sammy."

Sam sat up, dropping his spoon and plucked suddenly at the hem of his brown t-shirt. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. And hey- you know that button-up striped one I have?"

"The gray-and-blue, with the dark blue buttons?"

"Yeah. Wear that over top of the blue shirt, but don't button up." Sam squinted at him. "Just trust me. But hurry up; you gotta leave in like- five minutes." Sam nodded and abandoned his soggy bran flakes, thumping around the corner and down the hall to the bathroom.

Dean began washing the dishes and was almost finished when Sam reemerged in his blue t, holding Dean's short-sleeved button-up in one hand. "It looks weird."

"No it doesn't, here gimme." Dean took it and tossed it over Sam, forcing his arms through, and straitening the front. "There." He nodded, proud of his masterpiece. "You look snappy, dude."

Sam looked dubiously down at himself. "It's all wrinkled-"

"Which says, 'hey, I'm cool. I just tossed on this shirt I wear all the time, even though it makes me look hip.' Have a little faith, you look good." Sam shifted from his right foot to his left. A classic example of having something to say but waiting for Dean to prompt him. "'sa matter, stud, why so gloomy?"

Sam shrugged, uncomfortable. "It's just…this is my first…you know."

"Uh, date?" Dean grinned. "So?"

"I guess-" Sam let out a long breath through his nose like a cooling engine. "I just thought that Dad was going to be here when this came up. To give me the talk."

"Ahhh," Dean nodded, catching on. "Right. The treat girls with respect, beer and cars don't mix, ladies first and guys take all the shots speech. That's what you're talking about, right?" Sam nodded, looking depressed. "Well hey, I could give it."

"What?"

"I could give you the talk."

Sam looked alarmed. "No way."

"Why not? I've heard it twice."

He wrinkled his nose. "I don't want my- _brother_ giving me the talk."

"I repeat, why not?"

"Because. It's creepy."

Dean considered that. "Yeeah…yeah I get that."

Sam glanced at him and let a smile slip through. "Thanks anyway."

"Alright, get outa here." Dean gave him a playful smack on the back of the head and Sam went for the door, grabbing his backpack and lunch on the way. "Oh hey wait." Sam turned. "So picnic right after school, right?"

"Yeah. See you sometime around dinner, I guess."

Dean was uncertain. "You okay walking all the way from Jackson Heights?"

"Oh, Sandra's friends with one of the center forwards on the middle school football team, and he's got a brother who's taking a girl to the picnic, and his _brother_ is eighteen, so he's going to drive us." Sam paused, breathing hard as his excitement poked through. "See ya!"

"Sam?"

"What?"

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "Have fun." Sam glowed and with a light click, disappeared behind a stained inch of spruce.

Dean tidied haphazardly, stuffing dirty socks into the sofa cushions and plucking dried macaroni out of the rug with a paper napkin, disposing of it on the tiny coffee table. Suddenly he heard a soft _Prrrring! Prrrring! _It was quiet, but insistent.

After a pause, Dean went to the bathroom, and sure enough, the ringing was coming from there. He dug around in the dirty clothes Sam and he had let pile up on the tile floor. Without a bedroom dresser or closet, this was pretty much the only place to leave them besides the living room.

Finally, he found Sam's navy-blue hoodie, which apparently, he had left the cell phone in all day yesterday, and forgotten about it by the evening. Thoughts of Sandra must have sent it clear out of his mind, Dean thought with a satisfied smile and answered the phone.

"Hello?" Dean checked his watch. "Mr. Baker my shift doesn't start for another…no, sir." He started digging one-handed for his denim jacket. "Yes sir. I'll be there as soon as I can." Dean glanced up from his rummaging just long enough to turn the phone off and stuff it in his back pocket, then finally unearthed his jacket and tugged it on. He stood ankle-deep in the mess of laundry for several minutes and took a deep, steadying breath. "Sam? You just better have one heck of a time for both of us."

- - - - -

Running to the IGA, Dean tried to decide what he was going to say when he got there inevitably late. By the time he reached the double glass doors, he decided. "I'm sorry Mr. Becker, I left the moment I got your call" sounded the most placating and plausible. Hopefully it didn't sound like an excuse either. However, when he saw the square-shouldered man standing sternly by Chris' register, the very idea of explaining himself evaporated and he simply said, "I'm sorry Mr. Becker," and left it at that.

Becker seemed to be going for the Guinness record for longest unblinking stare. Dean hated the way he could make a guy feel disobedient and seven just by locking eyes with him. Dean got the impression he had just committed a million crimes he had not in that moment, and he forced himself to blink.

"Dean what happened after I broke up your fight with Chris last night?"

Dean felt that was tremendously unfair; Chris' fight with _him_ was more like it. But he answered straight all the same. "Chris gave me my total, I paid him, took my groceries and left."

Becker stared contemptuously back at him for another breathless moment, then blinked slowly and decisively. "Chris here says you never paid him for those groceries."

The world spun around twice under Dean's feet as the whole situation suddenly came into sharp relief. "No- no, I did. The total was twenty-nine fifty, or…twenty-nine fifty-three or something like that, and I paid him in cash."

"Do you have a receipt?"

"No sir."

"Did Chris not give you your receipt with your change?"

"I paid him thirty bucks and left; I didn't get any change."

"You just- overpaid Chris and split." Becker shrugged. "Well that makes sense, the two of you are pals."

"Hey he beat the pulp outa me, I wasn't sticking around for a lousy fifty cents!" Dean felt his face getting hot and his fists clenching themselves. All the advice John had ever given him about his temper flew straight out his burning ears as Becker confronted him with the most infuriating, serenely skeptical expression Dean had ever beheld.

Chris, meanwhile, was leaning against register three's signpost, his nose swollen and gross-looking, though from the satisfied sneer on his face, you'd think he got it skateboarding instead of fist fighting with a kid two years and ten inches his junior. Dean glared hotly at him, which made the Halloween smile grow a little.

"Dean." It was Becker again. "Chris tells me that you never paid him for that order. It doesn't show on the register, and if you didn't stick around for him to ring up your change or give you a receipt, you have no alibi." He adjusted his weight to the right, tapping the left foot petulantly. "Personally I think there's no way a penny pincher like you leaves behind even fifty cents. That's a stick of Wriggle's or a Snickers for your kid brother."

Dean clenched his jaw. "I swear to you, Mr. Becker, I paid thirty dollars even before leaving last night, and if Chris didn't ring it up, it's his problem not mine."

"I don't tolerate juvenile delinquents in this store, Winchester-"

"I didn't steal anything!" Dean shoved a finger in Chris' direction. "He pocketed it. Why not? He knows it's cause of me he's not getting a date for the next five to eight weeks, why wouldn't he want to back-stab me?"

Becker's tone was so parental it was all Dean could do not to slap him. "Chris is older, he has been with me longer, and he has had a clean, good record. You on the other hand, you're late for work, you have no references, you start fights-"

"I didn't start that fight-"

"You shut your mouth!" Dean flinched. He found himself hoping the gold ring on Becker's left hand didn't mean he had kids too. He got the feeling he would be a volatile father if not abusive. At that moment, Dean wouldn't have been surprised if that tower of muscle didn't grab him by the jacket and hit him in the gut. "Dean, you will pay back that twenty-nine dollars and fifty cents, or I'll-"

"Forget it." It just sort of…popped out. Later Dean would kick himself for letting it happen, but part of him would always be glad he said it.

"I'm not taking that tough-guy rap from you, kid."

"I'm not replacing money I didn't take."

He blinked. Just one, decisive, fists open and mouth shut blink. "Well. Then you're fired."

Dean stared at him. "For taking something I didn't take."

"Don't be cute. Give me your ID." Dean swallowed, mind scrambling. "Your ID, Dean, now!"

He fumbled into his pocket and pulled out the ID, sticking it stiffly out in front of him for Becker, who snatched it from between his fingers. "This is flipping idiotic," he said. Becker eyed him. "I paid- I overpaid. And because your punk junior manager wannabe has a vendetta-"

Becker leveled a thick finger at him. "You hush and get out of my store. Right now. I don't want to see you in here again." And he turned on his heel and left.

The impact of Dean's situation hit him then. Sammy. And the rent and the Cheerios and…and the impossibility of a job anywhere else. Jaw taut, he went to Chris, grabbing him by the sleeve. "You've got to tell Becker the truth."

Chris didn't smile. He looked livid now, as though he wanted to give Dean a nose job that matched his own. "You heard him, bagboy. Get."

"I need this job," Dean said savagely. "Don't be a moron, this is a stupid way to get back at someone, you dimwit." Every insult seemed lamer than the last. He guessed he was hoping that if Chris got angry enough, he'd start touting what he had done loud enough for Becker to hear. But Chris did not fess up. He leered back at Dean, eyes glittering like snake fangs at the bottom of a black hole.

"You're just lucky I don't call the cops on you, Winchester. You know what I think? I think you don't have any parents. Two kids living out on their own, not looked on too kindly in the great state of Tennessee, you know." He pointed at the door. "If I were you I'd get lost before little Sammy ends up in an orphanage in Nashville."

"You're so full of it."

"Yeah." Chris took a step towards him. "Need some more bruises, retard? Get lost."

Dean turned and headed for the door, but paused partway there. "For the record? Never call him Sammy again unless you want that nose to come the rest of the way off."

Chris seemed to find that funny. "Be sure to come back when Sammy hits puberty. Zit cream, isle seven."

Dean slammed the glass door behind him, standing for several breathless moments outside the IGA, unsure of what to do…until he spotted the great, Car of the Year, SN-95 Mustang sitting in all its silver-painted glory to his right. And the shelves of melons for their produce sale were blocking it from the register's view inside. Then it occurred to Dean that Chris had no idea where Dean lived.

Dean crossed the parking lot and knelt down by the irrigation ditch, which was full of pitiful grass, mud and a lot of gravel. He chose a particularly large chunk that looked more like a piece of blacktop, and went back to the car. The piercing squeal of rock on metallic paint never sounded so beautiful, and after a few moments, he stood back, surveying his work. Then he turned and jogged off down the road.

That night, when Chris finished locking up, he came to find his precious Mustang's driver door horribly scratched. Little, glittering chips of silver paint littered the ground beside and a large, pointed rock rested amongst them, also glittering dully. After the initial horror, he knelt beside it, inspecting the damage, and realized they weren't just scratches. They were letters.

His Name Is SAM.

- - - - -


	4. Four

- - - - -

After school, Sam waited at the science wing parking lot for twenty minutes before a blue minivan pulled up. The door slid open and a boy Sam recognized as Brian, the Cougar's center forward, jumped onto the blacktop. "Hey, you must be Sam Winchester." Sam stuck out his hand and Brian took it briefly, as though he thought a handshake was very uncool. "Well, climb in loverboy, we don't have all day." Brian grinned brightly, and Sam suddenly felt very "in" as he clambered as smoothly as he could into the minivan, making a b-line for the backseat where Sandra was sitting. She wore a dark pink sweater over a white t-shirt and a glittery, maroon belt around her khaki pants. Sam thought she couldn't possibly look more like a fashion model than she did now.

They drove for awhile and Sam did his best not to make an idiot out of himself talking to Sandra. Brian pulled on a pair of headphones and started zipping away on his Nintendo, and up in the front, Brian's brother Sean and his girlfriend Marissa flirted endlessly.

Sam and Sandra were midway through a discussion about music (Sandra wanted U2 to come off their hiatus, and Sam wanted Sandra to at least give Metalica a shot) when Sam realized they'd just crossed the train tracks. He looked out the window in time to catch a bright green sign reading, "Theta Pike".

Sam leaned forward in his seat. "Hey, Sean?" Sean glanced in the rearview mirror. "Is this the quickest way to Jackson Heights?"

Brian pulled his headphones off. "We're gonna stop by the grocery store and pick up a few things for the picnic."

"Oh okay." Sam gave Sean an apologetic nod, and then nodded at Brian as well. "Thanks." Brian returned to his music and Sam sat back in his seat and resumed his conversation with Sandra.

- - - - -

__

Prrrring…

Prrrrring…

Prrrrring…click- This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call Jim Murphy at eight six six, five-

Dean hung up the phone, and tossed it gloomily on the sofa. He dug into his pocket and withdrew what was left of his IGA paychecks. $29.87. A lousy thirty bucks to get him and his brother by until John resurfaced.

The boys' father took nothing for granted. He always had a backup plan. The trouble was there was no way he could have predicted every part of that plan falling through. The money was trapped in the bedroom, Pastor Jim's phone was off the hook, and the gun was still where it always was, but this time around, their problems weren't solvable with rock salt or buckshot. Much as he hated it, Chris had a point; it was only a matter of time until someone in the Motel realized the Winchester boys were living alone, and then what?

Dean shook himself and snatched up the TV remote, booting the tube up. Every time things got quiet, he started worrying. And he couldn't worry, he wasn't allowed to. Sam worried plenty for the both of them.

There was a NASCAR special he started watching, though his eyes were only half tuned in. A loud banging came from somewhere the back of the house. He turned the volume up six bars.

- - - - -

The feeling of unease had crept sneakily and steadily into Sam's stomach, until he was barely listening to Sandra's explanation of her trip to LA with her family last year. The sun was beginning to set, and yet they still hadn't reached the grocery store. They'd been on Theta Pike for almost a half-hour, and were now turning onto a road called Roy Sellers Road, which turned into Jacobs Road, which turned into an unnamed dirt road.

"Woah there's a grocery store all the way back here?" Sam said, trying to sound light and sarcastic. Sandra laughed. Brian just shrugged and Sean kept on driving.

The car bucked on the uneven drive, causing Sam's nervous stomach to pitch even more. Finally they came to a stop, and Sean put the car in park and got out, Marissa following suit. Brian unbuckled his seatbelt and turned around. "Well? C'mon you guys." He bailed out as well, and Sandra shrugged and followed him, clambering over Sam's legs to get there. He caught a brief whiff of her vanilla shampoo as she did this, and normally he supposed that would make his heart race. Today however, the combination of vanilla, new car and foreboding made his stomach churn.

When Sam got out of the car and glanced around, it appeared first that only trees surrounded them. Then he looked to see where Sean and Marissa had gone, and realized they were headed towards a broken down house almost directly ahead of the minivan. The wood was rotting and coated in ivy, but once Sam stared at it long enough, he realized it was once a very impressive building, and even now was taller than most abandoned houses.

"I don't get it…," he said slowly, catching up with Brian. "What about the picnic?"

"What about it?"

"Yeah be cool, Winchester," Sean put in, giving Marissa a brief kiss, and linking his arm around her shoulders as they climbed the steps to the house.

Sam walked awkwardly beside Sandra as they too mounted the front porch with Sean and Marissa, Brian close behind them. "Kids?" Sean spread his arms wide. "Welcome to the Hodgins place. Also known as the Haunted Hodgins House." He grinned, winking briefly at Sam, his voice taking on a fire-side-horror-story quality. "Fifty years ago today, eighty-year-old George Hodgins was mysteriously murdered in his house. The cops found blood in the bedroom, yet the body had completely disappeared. Since that day, old man Hodgins has haunted this place, waiting for his murderer to return. But you know ghosts. They don't know the difference between the guilty-" (he lifted his fist to the door) "-and the innocent." He rapped loudly, and jumped back, making Sandra squeak a little. The door swung in, screaming on its hinges, and a little dirt fell from the ceiling inside.

Sam took a step back, feeling the tension rise. Maybe these kids figured it was all a hoax or a good story, but he had the misfortune of living in a world where he knew the impossible was often possible. For all he knew, Hodgins was really in there, waiting for someone to walk through the door and become the next victim in an unexplainable mystery.

Suddenly he had the unpleasant sensation that all eyes were on him. Brian was saying, "No one ever goes in there and comes out alive." He elbowed Sam in the ribs. "So what d'ya say, Sam?"

He blinked. "Huh?"

"Sandra said you were cool. This would be a way to prove it." He swept and implicative hand at the open door. "What're you waiting for?"

Sam turned on Sandra, who was staring unblinkingly back at him, beautiful and expectant. He felt his throat go numb and his mouth dry out instantly. "I'm…that thing is structurally unsound you guys, forget ghosts it could fall in on-"

"Chicken." Sam looked at Brian who shrugged indifferently and repeated, "You're a chicken Winchester." He raised his eyebrows at Sandra. "I told you."

Sam struggled to regain Brian's attention. "Hey, being smart has nothing to do with-"

"You scared or aren't you?" Sean cut in.

"Yeah." Marissa swung an arm through Sean's and smiled prudishly down at Sam. "C'mon, we could use the scare. Just go in, get a book or something and come out. Easy. You don't believe this ghost stuff anyway, right?"

Brian nodded. "It's cake, Winchester." Sam stared at him for a long time until Brian sighed, breaking the silence. "Fine. Let's go you guys, gotta take Grandma Samson home."

Sam would have been okay with that. He hated it, but he could have lived with it, had Sandra not caught his elbow on the way down the porch steps. "Hey." He looked at her, and her eyes were wide and disappointed. "I told them you were cool. I thought…" she swallowed hard. "I thought you were different. You're really making me look bad, Sam."

Oh. Did she have to say his name? Did she have to have great, wide, blue eyes? It was atrociously unfair. Sam felt himself saying, "Fine," and then the ringing in his hears began as his feet walked him back up the steps. "Fine," he repeated as he passed Brian and dropped his backpack onto the porch floor. "You guys want a thrill? I'll bring you two books."

Sandra was glowing and Brian looked satisfied. Sean swept a graceful arm to the door. "Well? In you go."

"Yeah nice knowing you, kid," Marissa added with a sly wink.

Sam moved past the tall teenagers, hesitated a little, nodded at Sandra, and then walked straight through the rotting doorway. Sean reached in and closed the door behind him.

Sam looked up at the dusty, cobweb-coated ceiling and noted that it had completely fallen through in places, revealing a dusty room overhead. He moved around on his tiptoes, trying to see into the room, and realized there were shelves up there. A library? Good. Time to go get those books.

He quickly navigated through the mostly vacant downstairs, but the further he went, the darker and mustier it got. By the time he reached the stairs, he felt like he was breathing undiluted dust. He coughed harshly, taking a step onto the staircase. The first step he put his weight on broke in half, and he jumped back. He heard a scream outside.

"Sam, you okay?" It was Sandra. Sam felt a little bravado coming on.

"I'm good. It's just a- snake. But he's dead now." After saying it, he felt really dumb and knew that Dean would never let him live it down, had he been there to hear it. But he smiled as well. This wasn't so hard. And there probably was no Hodgins.

Sam ascended the stairs carefully, testing each step before using it, and at last reached the upper landing. He found himself in a dark, musty hallway. The carpet had long-since been eaten away by time and the elements which snuck through the decaying rafters above. The floor seemed to be holding together, and he went smoothly down the hall to the room he had seen from downstairs. Sure enough, he reached the doorway to find a small study with a gaping hole dominating most of the room.

Sam checked the tiny strips of floor stretching against the walls for sturdy footholds. The left half looked in better shape than the right, so he went that way, pressing his back solidly against the wall, and began to scale what was left of the floor. He could see two bookcases at the back of the room, both mostly empty, but still containing a few ruined books. Two. He just needed two.

Then he heard it. It started as a quiet creaking, which he forced himself to believe was a result of the rotting wood that barely held this house up. Then it turned into a high whining, which escalated in pitch until it completely disappeared. Sam froze, glued to the wall, wide eyes fixed on the dark hallway behind him. The silence made his ears pound and the house seemed to have fallen completely silent.

Sam moved his foot. The sound started again. Now it sounded less like squeaking and more like…moaning? Long, drawn, mournful noises. Noises of the dead. Sam's heart hammered in his chest as he tried to decide whether to head for the bookcases or return to the hallway, from whence the sound appeared to be coming. He cleared his throat. "Hello?" Bad idea. His own voice creeped him out, causing him to add, "Very funny Brian." There was a quiet clicking. Then…

__

Maaaaaaaaaaaaawww…Aaaahhhhh…I- I…uh- aaaahhhh…

Labored breathing; both his and the voice's. Sam panicked. He skated quickly across the beams as the voice intensified.

"REVENGE!" It screamed suddenly with terrifying clarity, its words broken by long, grizzly breathing. "AVENGE- haaaaah -AVENGE ME! Haaaah…" Even now, Sam couldn't quite tell where the sound was coming from. It filled the room, the whole house. Hodgins could be anywhere. He was everywhere!

"Oh gosh oh gosh oh gosh no…no no no…" Sam scurried to the edge of the room and grabbed one of the rotting bookshelves. He hauled himself away from the wall, standing finally at the back of the room. Slamming his back against the second shelf, he turned frantically to look back down the hall. From across the old study, the hallway looked like a small, black hole. Like staring down the throat of a wooden snake. Sam strained his eyes against the darkness, trying desperately to see anything down that black stretch of space, but nothing appeared, and the sound had vanished again.

The moments slogged by until he turned his back on the hallway, and surveyed the bookshelves. Two books were stacked on top of one another directly in front of him. Sam grabbed them both without looking at them, and started back across the room.

His mind was buzzing, scrambling for what to do next. What would Dean do? _Dean wouldn't have come in here on a dare in the first place, dummy._ Sam kicked himself yet again for giving in to Sandra. No girl could possibly be worth this! He could die in here. Sam felt his hands begin to sweat and his feet grow cold. He could die here…

No. No, he wasn't going to die. There was no Hodgins; his mind was playing tricks on him. Too many late-night horror flicks and too many pent-up nerves. He could do this!

Sam started down the dim hallway once more, feeling spongy board beneath his sneakers, and hearing every squeak the rafters made. Just a little further. Just-

__

Ahhh…aaaaah…haah- haah- haah…

He froze. "No."

__

Avenge- me…Avenge- haaah -me!

"No!" Sam turned. Whole body throbbing in horror, he fled back down the hallway. He heard pounding behind him and didn't dare look back, but cascaded straight ahead to the study. He wasn't looking or thinking, but ran pell-mell into the dark room and before he knew it, he was slipping and falling on the slanted floor.

Sam threw his hands out behind him, trying to grab onto something as he slid towards the yawning hole in the floor. He felt like he was being swallowed. The whole house buckled in his vision as he crashed downwards. And then he was free falling, the air rushing past him, making him nauseous. Truth be known, it all happened in seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Constant fear of the next moment.

Sam hit the floor and remarkably didn't hear the white snap of a bone or even the pop of his shoulders or knees. He was alive. He lay flat on his back, dazed, and stared up at the hole he had just fallen through, mind trying to catch up with body. His head continued to pound, and he was shaking all over. Something warm slid past his ear, and he jerked upright, grabbing for the spot. Blood oozed from somewhere around his cheekbone. His chin stung too, and he thought he felt some tattered skin there as well. But he was alive. He was okay.

Then he remembered the pounding he'd heard on his way down the hallway and shot to his feet. Footsteps, it had sounded like footsteps, hadn't it! The world tipped silkily around him, but adrenaline powered him out of the debris that had fallen with him. Not even pausing to wonder what happened to the books he'd had, he broke for the door, every ounce of strength intent on pulling it open and getting out of this house.

When Sam finally burst into the rosy, evening light (blinding grabbing his backpack as he ran), the first thing he noticed was how clear the air was. His second thought was that Sandra, Brian, Sean and Marissa weren't standing on the porch anymore. In fact, they seemed to have disappeared entirely, though the blue minivan was still parked in the driveway. Sam leapt down the porch steps and slowed to a halt by the van, his breath still jumping from him in little gasps. He put his palms on his knees, trying to pull himself together, eyes still darting around the clearing.

"Sandra?" He panted. "Br…Brian?"

"Boo." The voice came from directly behind him and he spun around to meet it. When he turned, however, he didn't see a person, but a silver nozzle at the end of a can. No sooner had he realized what it was then a jet of thin, pink slime erupted from the nozzle and Sam jumped back in surprise as his hair, shirt and jeans were coated with the stuff. As though from the end of tunnel, he heard laughter. He looked down at himself, realized it was Silly String and looked up again, bewildered. It was Sean.

"Man you should have seen your face!" he cackled. Marissa came out of the tree line then, also laughing wildly, and sent a brief jet of yellow Silly String from her own can. Sam attempted to deflect it, but he was too numb and shaky to avoid more than a little of the plastic string. He felt like someone had put him in a snow globe and tipped him upside down. Nothing was making sense.

"Sam! Hey, Sam!" Sandra strolled from behind the van, a disposable camera held aloft. "Say cheese!" The camera flashed in Sam's face twice. He just watched her, dumbstruck.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, the voice returned. Loud and strangely raspy. _"Avenge- haaah -ME!" _Sam turned quickly towards the old house in time to see Brian appear in the doorway holding a Boombox cranked up to the max. The voice was coming from there. Sam realized a crackly, poor-recording quality he had not noticed in the gloom of the Hodgins house.

Sam somehow found his voice. "Was this…this was all-"

Brian shut the stereo off and jumped off the porch, beaming. "Man that was hilarious!" He high-fived Sandra…who then kissed him. Kissed him purposefully, meaningfully. A long, drawn-out kiss. She pulled away and eyed Sam with a new light. Like a puppy she thought was cute but no way would she adopt. She was cool and collected. How had he not seen that superior glint in her eyes before? She looked just like Marissa.

Sam couldn't feel his hands or knees. He wanted to run for it, but he was afraid his rubber legs would give out and he'd fall on his face instead. That would be the perfect capper to this horrific evening. He was still staring at Sandra, something still not making sense to him. "Why?"

Sandra shrugged. "Why what?"

"Why…all this? Why the hoax, why the…" he pointed at Brian's Boombox and couldn't seem to finish his sentence.

Brian stuck out his lower lip. "What'sa matter, ghostbuster? I thought you believed in this stuff." He dug into his back pocket and pulled out a battered, rolled-up notebook. Sam felt like something big and heavy had landed on his chest. It was his notebook; the one he thought was trapped in his and Dean's bedroom. The one with his notes on spirits and ghosts. The one he was going to make like his dad's. Brian cracked it to the middle and started reading aloud. "Spirits come in many different kinds. And not all are angry; some are just lost or confused. With a lost spirit, the best thing is to reason with them, and find a way of proving to them what they do not know: That they no longer live." Brian shut the notebook and chucked it at Sam's feet. "Awww."

Sandra laughed, and hugged his arm, smiling cat-like at Sam. "Sorry, Sam," she said after a pause. "You're sweet and all." She gave him an unimpressed sweep with her bright, sparkly eyes. "But you know, I'm not hanging out with a psycho. In your dreams, maybe."

Brian grinned at her. "Don't take it personal dude. For what it's worth, that was a laugh-riot!" He started laughing again and the rest of them joined in, trying to shove in little anecdotes about the look on Sam's face when he ran from the house and the way he was yelling.

"It was awesome man, we've been planning this like- all day," Sean told him.

Sam felt his face burning. He knelt down and gingerly retrieved his notebook, feeling suddenly stranded in this dark corner of the woods. Sean studied him through bursts of laughter and said, "Aw c'mon, kid, you gotta laugh at yourself more."

"Yeah?" Sam replied dully.

Sean lifted his can of Silly String again. "Yeah. Lighten up!" The jet of pink jumped forward, but Sam wasn't there to be hit by it a second time. He ran. Hard, fast, painful as it was, he ran flat out. Behind him, over the roaring in his ears, he heard Brian shout, "Keep your straight-A's, brain-case! You're a loser, Sam Winchester! Got that? Loser!"

- - - - -


	5. Five

- - - - -

Sam slowed down when the untitled dirt road finally gave way to Jacobs Road, and he walked in complete silence for a long time. The devilish glow of headlights came from nowhere not ten minutes after fleeing the Hodgins House, and he turned to see Sean's minivan roaring up behind him. He jumped further to the side of the road as it powered past.

"See you at school!" He heard Sandra scream out the window, followed by a tide of hysterical laughter. Sean chucked a beer-bottle out the window, but it missed Sam by a full six feet. Sam watched the van disappear down the road, hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder, and kept walking.

It was a bad time to be left to his own thoughts. By the time he saw the corner of Jacobs and Roy Sellers up ahead, he was convinced he was not only the biggest idiot in the history of Tennessee, but had struck a record for most nightmarish first date in the history of the universe. His feet hurt and the injuries from his fall were catching up with him. The cold wind made his face sting. He wanted to go home. Like- right now.

When Sam saw the payphone up ahead, he didn't think, he just ran. He threw himself into the booth, dropping his backpack onto the floor and rummaging in the front pockets for change. He noticed only then that his knuckles were bleeding.

After stuffing a few coins into the phone, he stood, trying desperately to remember Dean's cell phone number. 866-5...no. No that was Pastor Jim. Dangit! Sam pressed his forehead to the cool glass, the ring-tone making his head vibrate. _Calm down, Sam. Calm down._ 25. Those were the first digits, the numbers on Dad's license plate. 255-01...and the rest just came to him as he punched it in.

Sam waited with fast and painful breath as it rang and rang. Finally, _click_ "Hello?" The sound of Dean's voice struck a strange cord in Sam, and he felt a lump rising in his throat. Relief, desperation, embarrassment. "Hello?"

"Dean?" Sam tried to swallow the lump. "Dean it's S- it's Sam."

"Sammy?" Dean sounded relieved. "Geeze, where have you been? I expected you back like- an hour ago."

"I'm at the…I'm…"

"Sam?" Sam cleared his throat and tried to get a hold of himself once more. "What's up, buddy, you sound horrible."

"I'm at the corner of Jacobs and- and Roy Sellers."

"You're where?"

"I don't…I don't know!" Sam said, suddenly frustrated.

"Okay. Okay, calm down. What happened?"

"I just…I need you to come get me." _What are you thinking, Sam? That Dean's going to fly over here?_ "I mean- there's a-" He turned to look out the window, and saw a blue, covered bench across the street. "There's a bus stop."

"Okay." Dean's voice had switched to in-charge mode. "Can you wait for the next bus? Is that okay?"

"They're not gonna let me on, Dean, there's an age limit to riding the bus alone."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, well just hang tight, I'll walk to the stop on Carters Creek Station, and take the bus to you. Can you stay there alone?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah I'm okay."

"Okay." There was a pause. Dean was dying to know what happened, Sam could hear it in his silence. But he didn't ask. He just said, "Alright. Hang on and call if you need me, I'll keep the cell."

"Okay."

"Sammy, call if you need anything."

"Kay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. See you in a minute." Sam hung up the phone, heard the clatter of spare change, and stood in the empty phone booth for a long time before shouldering his backpack and crossing the deserted street to the bus stop. He took a seat, went to return his change to his pocket…and saw the Silly String clinging to him.

Something snapped in the eleven-year-old right then. He started tearing at the plastic strings of pink and yellow, wrenching them off his jacket, smacking at the stuff on his jeans. Then he realized there were tiny strips of it on his head and started ripping that out as well, along with some of his hair. He was breathing hard, tears appearing out of nowhere, his limbs shaking feverishly. He felt sick to his stomach, freaked out beyond reason. _Stupid. Stupid, Sam, stupid!_

That look on Sandra's face when she kissed Brian. She kissed Brian. She kissed him because she loved him and she didn't love Sam. She just let Sam believe she loved him. _In your dreams, maybe. In your dreams. _They must have been laughing themselves silly all the way out here. Just wait until we see the look on stupid Sammy's face. Sam, the freak who believes in monsters. Sam, the boy Sandra picked up so her boyfriend could make a fool out of him._ See you at school!_

Had Sam had more than a half sandwich for lunch, he would have thrown up. As it is, he lurched forward and gagged a little, hands clutching white-knuckled to his knees. "Stupid," he whispered. "Stupid stupid stupid stupid!"

Finally Sam sank back onto the bench, wrapping protective arms about his backpack as though it were a teddy bear. Beyond thinking, he ducked his head and let himself have a good, long cry. _"What's the matter, Sammy? What's wrong."_ Dad, Dean…Mom. Sam felt he would give anything to hear those words from anyone right now. He was an idiot. A loser. He pressed dirty, bloodstained fingertips to his sticky-wet eyelids, touching the salty taste to his lips absent-mindedly.

And he was a crybaby too.

It seemed to take hours for the bus to arrive. When the lights appeared like twin Christmas lights in the distance, Sam had gone numb with cold and dried-out emotions. The tears and Silly String were gone, but some of the dirt and blood remained, and he had a feeling Dean was going to freak when he saw it.

The bus came to a gradual stop by the blue bench, and after a series loud hisses, the side door popped opened. A tall, dark-haired lady sat behind the wheel, and eyed Sam uncertainly in the dim light. "Sweetie, are you here alone?"

Sam got to his feet. "My brother's-"

"He's with me. Ma'am?" Dean rushed to the front of the bus. "Ma'am, he's my brother. He's with me, I'm sixteen." She nodded and Dean came down the steps, freezing when he saw Sam. "Sammy? Oh my-"

"Dean-" Sam cut him off, grabbing his backpack. "Can we just go home?"

Dean surveyed him, taking in the cuts, the dirt, and the little white trails left on his cheeks from twenty minutes of tears. He also noticed several large tears on the blue shirt he'd lent to Sam, the shredded threads poking out from under his brother's sweater jacket. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Sam mumbled, feeling his face flush. "Let's just go."

"Alright." Dean took him by the jacket and steered him towards the bus.

It was practically empty, but Sam kept going until they were just two rows from the back and sat down next to a window, sticking his backpack beside him. Dean sat across the isle as the bus started moving, casting Sam hasty yet obvious glances. After awhile, a small, sad smile came over Sam, and he met Dean's eyes for the first time. "You don't have to avoid me you know."

Dean shrugged. "Just…thought you'd like your space."

Sam shrugged too. "I don't really care."

"Okay." Dean slid across the isle and sat on the other side of Sam's backpack. Sam adjusted his position, noticeably relaxing. After a pause, Dean looked him over more thoroughly and realized his hands were shaking and his lips were strangely tinted. On impulse, Dean reached across the backpack and grabbed Sam by the hand, pulling it back immediately.

"You're freezing." Sam mumbled something like, 'nuh-uh' as Dean pulled his denim jacket off and stuffed it around his brother's shoulders. "How long were you out here anyway?"

"Just…I don't know, awhile I guess." Sam reached absently for the collar of Dean's jacket, and turned it up against his neck. "So I guess…you kinda guessed my date with Sandra was a bust." Dean didn't reply. "Turns out my notebook- the one I thought I'd left in our room? Brian stole it out of my locker. He hates brainy kids, you know, and…" He shrugged uncomfortably.

"Well what was in it?"

"Uh…ghosts, spirits, notes on creatures and stuff."

Dean watched him for a minute and looked away. "Kind of like Dad's?" The distressed little shift in Sam's position was all the answer Dean needed.

They both stared straight ahead for a minute. Then Sam went on as though he had not been interrupted, "Sandra's Brian's girlfriend." Dean looked at him. "Yeah. And his older brother Sean and his girlfriend, they kind of…worked up this prank, you know. To play on me. We were out by the Hodgins place, cause the kids at school think it's haunted."

"Is it?"

"I swear Dean, it looked haunted," Sam said miserably. "And I heard weird noises, and the folklore sounded right, so I really thought Hodgins was coming after me or something. So I ran, and I wasn't looking, and I fell through a hole in the floor." He waved vaguely at the side of his face, which was now crusted in little lines and dots of blood. "When I came out they were laughing. And Brian had a Boombox, and Sean had…had Silly String, and I decided to get out of there." He took a deep, steadying breath, trying hard not to look at the pained expression on Dean's face. "And that's it. No biggie, I just…don't plan on going on a date with Sandra Mitchel again."

"Aw geeze, Sammy." Dean chewed his lip and sighed. "Man those kids are flipping jerks. Want me to go to your school, smack some sense into Beavis and his friends tomorrow?"

Sam forced a rueful smile. "Naw, thanks anyway."

"You sure? It's no trouble, happy to do it."

"Yeah. I'm sure."

The bus had two more stops to make before returning to Carters Creek Station Road, so they rode for nearly a half hour. Despite his obvious exhaustion, Dean couldn't convince Sam to sleep. He leaned his head against the frosty window, crossed his arms to keep his fingers warm, and stared into space, eyes wide and absent. When they finally reached the bus stop, Dean took his backpack, and the two of them exited the bus into the frigid air outside.

"I'll never look at popsicles the same way," Dean said, pointing to the oily icicles hanging from a car parked across street.

"Uh-huh," Sam replied, but he didn't look. After that, they walked back to the motel without speaking.

- - - - -

Sam didn't want dinner. He didn't want to watch TV, and he didn't want Dean to clean the blood off his face. He wanted to go to bed, he said, and then he said he might call in sick for school tomorrow, which was when Dean officially got worried. Sam didn't skip days of school, he just didn't.

Sam disappeared down the hallway and the bathroom door clicked shut moments later. Dean approached it hesitantly, still thinking, one hand in his pocket, fingering the $29.87. He knocked. "Don't come in."

"I'm not coming in, Sam. Listen uh…I'm gonna duck out for a minute. Okay?"

"Okay."

Pause. "I'm taking the key, so lock the door when you get out."

"Sure."

"Don't forget, the bedroom's off limits."

"Dean, I know, I'm not an idiot."

Dean shrugged. "Okay good. Be back in a little while." He heard a rough mumble that sounded something like, 'mhmm', grabbed Sam's blue hoodie which was hanging over the back of the sofa (Sam still had his denim jacket), and quietly slipped out the front door.

- - - - -

"Sam. Sammy?" The hoarse whispering may as well have been a gunshot the way Sam jumped when Dean shook his shoulder. "Sam?"

"Hmm."

"Sam, you asleep?"

Sam grunted and turned onto his side. "Well I'm sure not anymore." Dean flicked the lamp on. Sam winced and reeled away. "Dude!"

Dean's smile faded a little as he looked his brother over. There were tiny rims of red under his eyes, and his nose sounded a little stuffy. He felt something clench in his gut, realizing Sam probably had cried himself out while Dean was gone. He pushed the feeling away. "Guess what."

"What?" Sam still sounded incredulous, but relaxed his squint a little. Dean reached down next to the bed and pulled up two white plastic bags. Sam raised his eyebrows. "You went all the way to the IGA?"

"Nah, I don't shop at the IGA anymore."

"Why not?"

"Ah, I just don't. But I did go down to Safeway, and here. Check it out." He upturned the first plastic bag and spilled peanut M&Ms, Twinkies, Beef Jerky and two bottles of Hawaiian Punch onto the bed.

Sam blinked down at the pile. "You bought pity food."

"I thought we could party like it's 1991."

Sam looked doubtful. "We haven't done a pity party since I was eight."

"Uh- yeah, hence the 1991 joke." Dean gave his arm a smack. "And I saved the best part for last." He dumped out the second bag and a VHS in a clear case bounced onto the stiff mattress. Sam picked it up.

"Poltergeist? C'mon, Dean, you know this movie's completely unrealistic."

Dean snatched the video back, eyebrows bouncing up and down. "Exactly."

"You hate it."

"Do not. And hey, it's this or X-Files, and they're re-running Red Museum tonight." Sam wrinkled his nose. "Right that's what I thought you'd say." Before Sam could protest, he had already popped it into the VCR and started it up.

Sam sat stiffly for awhile, not really watching and not saying anything. However, halfway through the commercial for Wrath of Kahn, his hand snaked across the bed and found the bag of M&Ms, opening it quietly.

They were midway through Carol Anne sliding across the kitchen floor, when Sam suddenly sat up, discarding a Twinkie wrapper and turning to Dean. "It's just I'm such a dummy."

Dean looked at him. "Excuse me?"

"I'm so stupid; I should have realized that Sandra didn't really like me. All she ever talked about was her stupid vacation and stupid U2 and how stupid Bono hadn't come out with an album since stupid Zooropa! You know, with that stupid song, 'Lemon' on it? I hate it! He sings like a girl, and they play it on the FM all the stupid time!"

"Ohh, oh-ho-kay." Dean rummaged around the crumb-strewn blanket for the remote and paused the movie. "Stop saying stupid, man, it's freaky."

"I was such a dimwit."

"Okay, better."

"She wasn't even all that into me. I should have seen it. And the way Brian kind of hassled me all the time? I mean, why would someone like that do me any favors? I'm stupid."

"You're not stupid," Dean said, getting aggravated.

"I am!"

"No, Sam, you're not. And there's something else you haven't thought of."

"What's that." Sam's hair was in his face now, and his arms were crossed. He looked distinctly unreceptive, but Dean pressed on anyway.

"Well why does a guy like Brian get his bully brother and his brother's girlfriend to come and help him trash _his_ girlfriend's- you know, sort-of date."

"What do you mean?"

"Nobody puts that much work into a prank without something to prove, Sammy. Not unless it's April first." Dean shrugged, leaning against the back of the couch next to Sam. "I mean, call me biased, but I think Sandra liked you. And I think Brian had to prove her wrong."

"Well he did a good job," Sam said bitterly. "I guess I don't need that talk after all."

"Well you can be flattered Brian _had_ to do anything. And anyway, you'll get that talk. Soon as Dad comes back."

"Yeah." A can of worms neither of them wanted to open, so the conversation ended there in silence. After awhile, Sam pushed his hair out of his eyes and sighed. "So…do you want to finish the movie?"

Dean glanced at him, noting how tired he was beginning to look. He fingered the remote. "Let's just skip to the scene where Carol Ann and her mom are all covered in strawberry jell-o."

Sam grinned. "Good deal."

- - - - -


	6. Six

- - - - -

The sound of water cascading down melamine was the only one in the house. Oh, and that annoying _grnng grnng _from the refrigerator. After Sam fell asleep, Dean had made himself some Spaghetti-O's and was just now finishing the dishes. The living room lights were off; the white fluorescents in the kitchen were now the only source of light in the house.

Dean glanced at the kitchen counter where a pad of sticky notes sat untouched. He'd been trying for an hour now to come up with what to write on John's note. _Dad: Sammy's a mess and we have no money. Thanks for your phone calls. -Dean_ That had been the only draft he'd actually written down, but then he ripped it to shreds and trashed it.

He dried his hands on the towel hanging from one of the cabinets, and turned towards the dark living room. Sammy was flat on his front on the foldout bed, pillow piled over his head in that way that always made John worry he was suffocating himself. Dean wanted to crawl in bed and join him. His head was beginning to throb, the bruises on his back shuddering with all the walking he'd done that evening. He glanced at his wrist. 2:09 am.

__

Vrrrrrr…vrrrrrr…

Dean froze. The sound was distant and very, very faint, but in the total silence it sounded deafening. Was it coming from the bedroom? It was, wasn't it. That's all he needed. Dean knelt quietly next to the kitchen counter and rummaged inside the cupboard that held the pots and pans. He reached into the gigantic stew pot they never did find a use for, and his fingers found the Jericho 941. John had always been an American-made firearms kind of man, but he admitted that the "Baby Eagle" was a good nine millimeter and for some reason accepted rock salt well, though this specific piece was loaded with fifteen rounds of real bullets.

Dean clutched the handgun tight. He was always a better shot with these smaller guns, and something about holding it made him feel…safe. In control.

__

Vrrrrrr…vrrrrrr…

Dean snuck through the living room, glancing over at Sam to make sure he was still asleep, then crept down the hallway, hitting the kitchen light switch on the way and plunging the house into velvet darkness. Back to the wall, gun pointed towards the floor, he eased silently towards the back of the house, feeling a rumbling beneath his bare feet. What if it was the bedroom door? What if-

__

Vrrrrrr…vrrrrrr…

Was it just him, or was it growing fainter? The walls of the hallway swallowed him and seemed to muffle the distant grinding, forcing it down a hole into silence. Suddenly lights stabbed through the dark house, and Dean spun, gun extended. Two, brilliant yellow orbs were glaring between the blinds in the living room, casting deep shadows over everything. Then they extinguished. He heard the metallic _chunk _a door. With a giant leap in his chest, Dean realized someone was parked just outside their motel room.

Dean flew back down the hallway and threw himself down beside the futon-couch. _It's Dad. Dad's home, it's just Dad!_ But Chris' horrible voice filled his brain.

__

"You're just lucky I don't call the cops on you, Winchester."

His Name Is SAM.

"…call the cops on you, Winchester."

Dean got to his knees, peeking over the arm of the couch to look at Sam. For a crazy moment, he considered grabbing his brother and running to the bathroom. If Sam went first, they could both stuff into the cabinet under the sink; they'd done it before. But then the doorknob rattled (_You didn't lock the door when you got back, did you? Stupid, Dean, stupid!_), and he knew the moment that door opened, it would be in time to see two boys fleeing down the hallway to a dead end. At least this way, he had a gun and he could- he could what? Wave it like an adolescent criminal and order them out of his house? Maybe if he could stall them…just long enough for John to get back. Just long enough…

__

Click.

The door swung in swiftly. Dean shied into the shadow of the couch, the Baby Eagle trained on the dark figure now towering in the doorway. The intruder turned, quietly shed its coat, and sighed. It was a man. He ran his hand through tousled hair. Then he turned and squinted into the darkness.

"Dean?"

Dean fumbled to his feet, the gun slipping from his sweaty fingers and thudding to the carpet without his notice. He felt his throat tighten and his chest release. "Dad," he said.

"Dean. C'mere." Dean ran to stand in front of his father, and John grabbed him by the shoulders, squeezing them. "Hey. Are you boys okay?"

Dean felt a moment's hesitation. "We're okay, Dad."

"Good. Good, that's…that's good."

"Are- you okay? Dad?"

John seemed to be looking past Dean at first. He looked dazed, as if he was having a hard time figuring out where he was and why it was so dark. Then he focused on Dean again. "Yeah. No I'm okay. And Sammy? Sammy's okay?"

"Sammy's fine. He's asleep." He pointed over his shoulder.

"Good." He smiled a small, weary smile and then to Dean's surprise, pulled him into a spontaneous embrace. "That's my man."

Dean felt his anger vanish for just a moment. He wasn't afraid, he wasn't furious or disappointed. They could do this, they could work this. Then John's strong hands found the bruises on Dean's back, and Dean went rigid, sucking in his breath, and backing out of the hug, which instantly loosened.

"Dean?" John looked at him. "What is it."

"Nothing," Dean grunted, as John hit the kitchen switch and flooded them in the sickly greenish light of the fluorescents.

"Let me see." Dean pulled his tongue to the back of his mouth, teeth on end, and reluctantly let go of the hem of his shirt. John bunched it up across Dean's back, examining the damage with warm, probing fingers. Dean could feel anger burning on the back of his neck like a dying fire. "Who did this to you, Dean. What happened?" It was stern. A command. Tell me what happened now, Private.

Despite the tone, however, Dean felt his indigence flare up again and turned, snatching a fistful of t-shirt out of his father's hand. "I got a job, that's what happened. I got a job because we were out of money and Sam shouldn't have to eat granola just cause we're out of money." He read the confusion on John's face like bolt-type but barreled on, determined to get every word out there before he lost his nerve. "And a guy beat the living tar outa me at work, cause he's a moron and fat liar to boot, and I came home with thirty bucks in my pocket. And then I blew all but eight-twenty of it on trying to cheer Sammy up because his first-ever date was a bust, and you missed it. You missed his first date, Dad, and he wanted you to give him the talk and-"

"Woah, okay hey hey hey…" John's eyes slipped from stern to pacifying like melting ice. "Slow down. Just- just slow down. Dean what happened to the box of money I left you boys?"

Dean's breath shuttered a little as he came down off his tirade. "It's still in the bedroom, cause…cause there's a Bogle in there. I went in one morning, and all I know is I started hearing my own voice bouncing off the walls, and the shadows were taking on funny shapes and someone was laughing like a crazy person. I mean, it's just cause of those fire drills we used to do that I thought to grab some of our clothes and run for it. Lucky for me, it tipped the bunk-bed when I went, which gave me an excuse to keep Sammy out, cause Dad I swear, I have no idea how to get rid of those things."

John shut his eyes, looking more exhausted by the moment. "Dean, they're just- they're really rare, I never expected you'd have to deal with one of those. Typically you can just ignore them or box them up, so I didn't see the need to teach you."

Dean ground his teeth, remembering how furious he'd been after slamming the door against that falling bunk bed. "It's been making noises back there ever since. I had to tell Sammy it was the next-door neighbor's TV, since it kept screaming and banging around. I hate that creepy little-"

"But you're both okay. It never got out?"

"I shoved some rock-salt under the door so Sam wouldn't see. Coated the windowsill too."

"That's good thinking. And the important thing is you and Sammy are okay."

Dean didn't appreciate the compliment, nor did he like how John kept harping on how they were both "okay". He thought of Sam and the ride home. And how, if he had been there, John could have gotten Sam in the Impala, instead of driving home on the cold, steamy bus. The one where Sam had stared out the window the whole time, trying to think of a million things but his own embarrassment and disappointment.

Dean crossed his arms. "I don't know 'okay' is the word I'd use. The girl Sam was going to the picnic with turned out to be a real Banshee and put together some dirt-bag prank with her real boyfriend. They went out to an old house, probably the Hodgins place though, you know, Sam didn't really elaborate. Set it all up to look like it was haunted and accidentally sent Sam through one of the rotting floors."

John locked eyes with him. "What?"

Dean felt a strange relief at of seeing the same vehement horror on John's face that he had felt when he'd first seen Sam at that dark, dingy bus stop. "He's got some scratches on his face and hands mostly. He wouldn't let me touch them, but said I could put some Bactine on tomorrow." Dean looked at John then with imploring sort of earnestness. "But Dad he was a wreck. We drove home on the bus, and his fingers were like- frozen before his hands started shaking. And I had no clue what to do, and I- I called you. I called you every day, and all I got, every day, was that stupid voicemail message. I mean- where were you? Why didn't you even call?"

"Dean I'm sorry about how this-"

"I don't want another apology, I wanna know why-"

"Dean." John's voice was sharp, and Dean felt the urge to send his fingertips to his forehead in a quick salute. But upon closer inspection, John was not angry. He was desperate and a little distracted, thoughts on a completely different track than Dean's. "You're going to…to have to trust me. You- I…I can't…" He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I can't even begin to explain what…what exactly I was doing, or where I was. And I can't rectify what happened to you and Sammy, and I'm- sorry I can't go back somehow and fix it for you." He paused. Dean just stared at him, trying to sort out how to feel now. "I am sorry for that, Dean. But…all that really matters to me right now is that my boys are fine. Maybe that's hard for you to get, I understand that, but you're just…"

"Gonna have to trust you," Dean finished, surprised to hear the words coming out of him. Then he added while the resolve was still in him, "And I do. I just don't get why you never answered your phone."

John licked his lips. "I loaned it to a friend of mine. He must have turned it off-"

"So where is it?"

"It's gone."

"Gone?"

"Yeah." John ran both hands over his face, breathing loudly between the fingers. "Yeah I'll need to get a new one tomorrow."

Dean watched him. None of this was making any sense. None of it sounded like an actual explanation, just fragments of a makeshift excuse. Still the worry-lines about John's eyes, the tired, blanched tone to his skin, those things spoke volumes about the story John didn't want to tell. Dean swallowed his anger and a little of his pride, and chose to trust.

"Well if you want, we've got Spaghetti-Os in the cupboard over the stove," Dean said. "And there's cereal and Mac and Cheese…and oh- there's Coke in the fridge." John didn't say anything; he just smiled, patted a heavy, warm hand on Dean's shoulder, and started down the hall. "Where you going?" Dean whispered after him.

"Thinking I'd see about that Bogle." John's smile split into a grin. "That little son-of-a-gun isn't long for this world."

"Sure you wouldn't rather wait till tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I won't be long. But you- you go get some sleep, Dean."

"Where are you gonna sleep?" Dean insisted.

"I'll figure something out."

"You sure?"

"Positive. See you in the morning." And he braced his weight against the door, hauled himself in past the collapsed bunk bed, and disappeared inside.

Dean stood in ringing silence for a long time. He kept glancing from the hallway, to the kitchen, to the couch where Sam slept, trying to make a decision. He wasn't stupid. 'I'll figure something out' just meant John had no intention of sleeping. Not until his boys had made it though another night. When everything was officially over, that's when John Winchester slept.

Dean felt the responsibility to get a few Cokes, sit at the counter and wait for John to come back out. It was his job, wasn't it? To stay up with the night watch. Like a good soldier.

Sam stirred in his sleep then, moaning a little under his breath. He seemed to be caught in an unpleasant dream. Dean went to Sam's side of the bed, getting down to his level. "Sammy? Hey. Hey Sammy." He shook his shoulder gently as Sam's moans intensified. "Sammy wake up. Hey!" The sound cut off abruptly as Sam's eyes snapped open. "Hey, you okay?" Sam blinked sluggishly, uncomprehending. "You looked like you were having a bad dream," Dean explained.

"Dean?" Sam lifted his head and his eyes seemed to be slowly waking up. "Wassup…?"

"Nothing, just thought you'd like get out of that dream you were having." He leaned forward "Hey guess what?"

Sam's head hit the pillow again, eyelids drooping. "Hmn."

"Dad's home."

Blearily, he opened his mouth in a wide yawn. His brief period of lucidity seemed to be gone. "Hmn…okay."

Dean watched him for a long time before standing up again. However, as he did, Sam's hand shot out and caught his shirtsleeve. "Where you going?" he demanded, suddenly shaken, eyes open wide and alert.

"I'm just-"

"Don't leave."

Dean peeled his brother's hand off his sleeve, tucking it back under the covers. "Did you have a bad dream?" Sam nodded vigorously. Dean glanced at the TV. "Was it about the movie?" Sam just bit his lip. No, he had never yet had a nightmare about Poltergeist, and they'd seen it at least four times. No, this nightmare was no doubt filled with Hodgins and Sandra, Silly String and that dirt-bag Brian. But for the sake of argument, yes. Sam's bad dream had been about the movie.

Dean grinned a little. "Guess having a TV right at the end of our bed wasn't such a gang-buster idea, huh?"

Sam's face was still anxious and half-asleep. "Don't go okay?"

Dean gave the hallway a last look and shook his head. "I'm not going anyplace." Dean kicked his sneakers off, leaving them on the floor with the Jericho. Still fully clothed, he clambered over Sam and fell onto his half of the bed, muttering a brief 'night Sammy' as he went. By the time he had settled himself amongst the mess of blankets and pillows, Sam had already fallen back asleep.

- - - - -


	7. Seven

- - - - -

It was almost five o'clock, and still John could not take his eyes off the futon where his sons slept. Sam was tangled in the sheets, head buried in his feather-pillow, mop of hair obscuring the little bit of his face showing. Dean was almost spread-eagled on top of the covers, and lying diagonally, head resting on one corner of Sam's pillow with an arm slung across his forehead.

John fondled Dean's cell phone, thinking. Unable to put it off any longer, he flipped it open and punched in the number he'd considered calling all night. It rang. And rang. Then picked up.

"Jim, it's me…yeah. Yeah, I'm okay, the boys are okay. Did- Dean ever call you? I told him when I left that you'd…uh-huh…oh." John adjusted his position on the barstool. "A red-eye, huh? That's interesting…No, I agree, better to leave the trail cold and let 'um move on. No good approaching a demon like that from the front…yeah, no, Dean's okay. They're both okay- they're…" John stared at the sleeping boys again. "They're just fine." John's hand clenched and loosened on the phone. He moved it to the left ear, cooling the right one. "Jim I've got some bad news. It's about Bill Harvelle…it's uh…well, it's hard to explain."

John stood up off the barstool, and began to pace, the emotion of the previous night catching up with him for the first time. "We were at the Devil's Gate Reservoir in Cali. He had a trap to set, asked for my help. Things uh…spun out of hand." John kneaded his forehead. His throat began to close. "Jim he's dead. I had no choice, he was…He's dead, Bill's dead." Neither of them spoke for awhile, and it was an uncomfortable silence. "I don't know what to…I have to call Ellen…yeah I know, but I can't drag the boys down to Nebraska right now…Jim, they need this. They need the break from moving around, and they need…just a few days, okay. Just two days without having to think about this stuff." John smiled ruefully at Jim's response. "Yeah. And me too." He searched the ceiling for resolve. "Jim I feel like a coward. But I can't face Ellen and tell her what happened, I can't…I don't want to see Joanna and know that I…what's happened to her daddy cause of me. It's just better this way. It's better them not knowing the whole truth." He took a deep breath. "Yeah…I know it. I know…Alright, Jim, you take care. Uh-huh. Buh-bye."

The sun began to rise about an hour later. John ducked out around six o'clock and returned twenty minutes later with groceries. He was pleased to see that the boys were still sound asleep.

Dean awoke to the refrigerator as usual. He swung his socked feet out of bed and stretched his sore limbs. His blue jeans had left little dents in his legs and cut off the circulation in his left knee, but after a few moments, he felt quite together and went into the kitchen, rubbing his porcupine hair.

John was there, sitting at the kitchen counter with a newspaper. When he saw Dean, he folded it and smiled. "Morning."

"Morning," Dean responded groggily, going to the cereal cupboard. He swung it open and paused. "Hey, where'd the Fruit Loops come from?"

John shrugged, opening his paper again. "Went to the store this morning, thought you boys could use the sugar." Dean raised his eyebrows. "You'll need the energy to help me fix up that room again. The bunk bed's gonna need repair."

"The other shoe," Dean sighed dramatically, popping the box open and digging out a handful of rainbow-colored O's. "What about school?"

"I think you two can play hooky for a day. But you, mister high school dropout, are going back to school after the weekend."

"I only dropped out so I could get a job," Dean pointed out defensively.

"Yes you did. But if your mom was here, she'd want you and your brother getting and education if at all possible."

"Yes sir," Dean muttered, grabbing a fresh fistful of Fruit Loops.

"Dean?" They both looked at the futon and saw the back of Sam's head just barely peeking over it. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and his messed-up hair. Then he turned and he saw John. He gasped. "Dad!" Sam bounded out of bed and into the kitchen. John dropped his newspaper and went at brisk walk to Sam, taking the boy's face in both his hands, examining his eyes, his hair, and his injuries. The obligatory health-and-emotion-check, Dean thought with a distant smile.

Sam braced himself for the demand, for an explanation or reprimand of some kind, but it didn't come. John smiled at him, running a thumb over the dried blood. "I missed you Sammy."

"I missed you too." And John hugged him. Both arms wrapped around him, one hand on the back of his head, he held him tight and then let go like he didn't want to.

"Let's go get you cleaned up."

"Okay," Sam replied, and followed John down the hallway.

Dean watched them go, munching absently on Fruit Loops, and felt a wave of inexpressible relief cover him. Like finding a happy ending to a story that seemed like it could only end badly. Like being cut loose from a horrible debt. Like…being happy again. Dean swallowed embarrassment that comes hand-in-hand with unbridled honesty. Right now, he was happy.

"Hey Dean!" He looked up to see Sam had come pell-mell back down the hallway.

"What?"

"Leave some Fruit Loops for me."

"Aw have a little faith." Dean dug into the box as though feeling the very bottom. "I think I've got…four? Five left? I'll save 'um for ya, don't worry."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

"Baby."

"Jerk."

Dean grinned. "Get lost, kid." Sam turned and pattered back to the bathroom. Dean took a seat with the box of Fruit Loops and began dropping them a pinch at a time into his bowl, listening to the high little, _plink plink_ as they hit the sides. In the bathroom, he could hear John and Sam's voices resonating faintly.

"Alright, lemme see this-"

"Hss- ow!"

"Okay, okay…"

"Ow ow ow-"

"Hold still."

…plink plink plink…

"Ah- it stings."

"It's Bactine; it'll cool off in a sec. Just hang in there, okay?"

"'kay."

…Plink plink plink…

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to tell me about what happened?"

…Plink plink…

"No. I'm…I'm fine, Dad, don't worry. It's okay."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Plink plink…

"So you're okay now."

"I'm okay now."

"Good. Let's get you a Band-Aid."

Dean popped the last Fruit Loop into his mouth and pounded it between his front teeth, coating the crevices in lime-green powder. He licked them clean and sat back in his chair, listening to the bathroom sink run. "That's my boy, Sammy."

* * *


End file.
